


Rattle Your Chains

by orphan_account



Series: The Art Of Scrapping Through [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: As per Family Tradition, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Found Family, Gen, I Just Put Death Eaters as Characters bc they are a lot and I'm lazy, Kreacher is a Softie for One (1) Person that is Regulus to the surprise of Absolutely No One, M/M, No Beta Reader We Die like Regulus, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Regulus Black Lives, Regulus Black-centric, Regulus does NOT have his shit together, Regulus is a softie, Slow To Update, The Most Ancient And Noble House of Black Dramatics, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24215584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If you love being free.(Or in which Regulus is the last scion of the Blacks, a teenager, a Death Eater, a traitor and a fool. He also tries really hard to do the right thing but lacks the ability to know right from wrong so he picks up strays to make up for it. In other words: he’s a little lost, but he’s got the spirit- and a Horcrux. He also has one of those)
Relationships: Regulus Black & Kreacher
Series: The Art Of Scrapping Through [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748026
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Rattle Your Chains

Regulus’ hold on his wand had more force in it than sense. It was a foolish thing to do, he knew. If his wits hadn’t left him moments ago he would be wasting breath cursing himself over it. Too much pressure, as stupid as it sounds, can shatter the fragile wood of a wand. Magic or no magic, it was still a thin piece of wood and the smallest splintering could unbalance a charm in the most unpredictable of ways. It was the silliest way regulus has ever heard of a wizard in needing a new wand but it was also much more common than one thinks. 

Still, his hold didn’t lessen any. There was no little voice nagging him about risks, about being aware of his surroundings, about the risks he could allow and those he wasn’t able to. There was no urge to uphold the family name, to be the perfect Heir, to behave as his station indicated. Even that little voice has abandoned him there. 

He was on his own.

It was only thanks to years of practice and obsessive self-control that he could regulate his rapid breathing, trick his brain momentary in believing himself in control to not sweat or tremble too obviously. It was only a lifetime hiding any weaknesses that prevented him from revealing himself as a spineless coward.

(The best education Magical Britain offers, including years of study of Occlumency, reduced for hiding panic attacks. If his father wasn’t rotting in Azkaban, he would have cursed him for such weakness)

“What are you waiting for, _Black?_ ” Mulciber’s disdainful voice forced him out of his head. It was almost funny, the way people spat his family name like a curse even in circles like this. No other family is able to amass hatred like the Blacks. 

“Don’t be cruel, Mulciber” Rosier muttered with a soft voice full of fake sympathy. He always was a born manipulator, even if most times he wasn’t subtle enough to be a truly effective one. It must have been that sadistic vein he wasn’t bothered enough with to hide “Our Little Prince always has to do things at his pace”

What a joke, _Little Prince_. As if Regulus ever presided over something in anything but name. Of course, the barb is double-edged. If the Dark Lord hears anyone call Regulus that, well. _Well_. 

He never enjoyed that kind of jokes. 

How typical of Evan, his antics always had to sting to land. Regulus almost smiled with fondness. 

(A show of care, with Evan, was always in what he didn’t say. Like ‘Little King’, despite being more accurate and twice as bitting. Evan Rosier could never be considered soft, or Merlin forbids, kind. But. 

He was not as bad as he could be. That meant a lot, for Regulus)

“Enough,” he told them instead. There was no time for sentiment. “It’s not your place to question me.” Regulus was relieved that his voice came out calm, assured even. Maybe if he could control something, even if it was just himself, he could fulfill this mission. It was crucial, the first raid he was given. Even if it wasn't that great of a raid. 

“Our place?” Mulciber laugh was a strident sound, all cruelty and derision. He stood as tall as he was, which was almost a head over Regulus. A mountain of a man. Of course, physical attributes, while intimidating, didn’t hold much weight in magical society. “The only one who doesn’t know his place here it’s you, little Black,” he said threateningly “Or do you think your family name is enough for the Dark Lord?” He advanced towards Regulus, like a predator towering over helpless prey. “You are just a Mama’s boys who doesn’t know what he got into”

His family name wasn’t enough for the Dark Lord? Please, he’d have been recruited for his family name alone. He was a Black, the heir at that, not a Malfoy or, god forbid, a Lestrange. 

“Enough,” Evan cuts in, and Regulus thanked him for it internally. He would have had to fight if Mulciber kept disrespecting him. It was his duty as the Heir of House Black (practically the Lord, with his father in jail) but Regulus was not particularly eager for a duel. He wasn’t very good at them. The duelist in his family had been his brother, and Bella had outdone him since. Regulus, despite his vast knowledge in magic (and the many hours invested in the Black Family grimoires), was more theoretical. He worried more about the hows and the whys than the results of a spell. 

“We don’t have time for your hippogriff fights,” Evan’s voice is cold as ice, “Black, you have a mission. The faster you commit the earlier we can leave.” 

Regulus chose to look at Evan then, even knowing than he shouldn’t stall anymore. He wasted a few seconds in his old ally. Unlike him, who was boy masquerading as a man, Evan had grown up since leaving Hogwarts. His light eyes a warning, as always, of the consequences of toying with him. Regulus still can picture them foggy, drunk on pleasure. Rosier wasn’t always as impassive as he looked.

(Regulus wouldn’t say they were lovers because aside from the occasional shag. Evan was promised to the second daughter of the Greengrass family, a union with years in the making. Regulus was just...a way to pass the time.

It was tempting, sometimes, to picture himself as something more than a casual bedmate in the soreness of the aftermath, in the silence after their gasps, in the rising of their moans) 

He knew he wouldn’t help him. Not in this, not with the risks it entailed. Evan wasn’t the type to risk his neck for anyone, much less a boy four years younger. It would be unfair of Regulus to ask him to do it.

...Even though fairness wasn't very tempting, at the moment. More like the opposite. 

“Hn” He said aloud, to try to make up for the time he lost in self-pity. He reminded himself of who he was as he turned to look to today's prey. The ones he had to-

They were two muggles, adults. A man and a woman. He was lucky. Regulus didn’t think he had the strength to kill a kid, muggle or not. Someone older than him but not old enough to be fragile...it would be easier, he supposed. They were dirty, with blood and mud on their faces. They were trembling, pale, sweating. Terrified.

Someone had the foresight to bind them and silence them because Regulus could read the begging in their lips but could not hear the whine in their voices. He was thankful for it. He was ashamed of it. A Black shouldn't cower from his duty and having that sort of delicacies was beneath him. 

Yet, they looked so normal, so much like him. 

Regulus blinked the thought away, panicked, and blinked again. Slow as a cat, but instead of lowering his guard, he was gathering himself for the worst. He pointed his wand at the woman first. 

She had a fire in her eyes, it was the first thing he noticed, and they broke half her face. But all her clothes stayed on -a fact that was not the norm, not if Bellatrix revolting tales were true -and there was defiance, no visceral fear or forced surrender, in her. 

(Regulus remembers finding Mary McDonald last year in the hallways, blood on her tights, and a lost expression on her face. He could never forget the way she flinched from him, once she saw the green in his robes. ‘Do you want me to leave?’ He had asked her. She had shaken her head, looking nothing like herself. Mary McDonald was always smiling, even at Slytherins despite being a lion. Regulus found it irritating, even if she was his preferred partner for Herbology, not that he would ever admit it. 

Regulus sat next to her in silence. He offered her his hand, careful of not touching her. He never touched her, mudblood as she was. That day, McDonald wasn’t smiling at all, but she took his hand with a strong grip. Regulus let her. ‘Do you want me to call anyone?’ He had asked and McDonald shook her head again and started crying, her small hand trembling in his. 

He must have sat at her side for hours, without saying a word) 

Regulus thought that the muggle woman he was going to kill was very brave and very stupid. His wand hand didn’t tremble but Regulus didn’t want to conjure the curse. The woman (and Regulus wanted to know and remember their names, his victims, the ones that will splinter his soul, and knew he could never ask) tilted her head up, chin stubbornly defiant.

Regulus couldn’t kill her. 

(She looked like Sirius, staring death at the face and not giving an inch)

He turned to the man and he was worse. His face was bloated, his leg broken, his hands twisted in strange ways by the binding. Regulus could see the bone in his ribs, they had carved runes on them. They were crudely drawn, and mostly useless, but incited pain all the same. He should be unconscious but Regulus didn’t think they would let that happen. It was no fun. 

The man looked dead already, with no fight in him. Regulus could almost tell himself that death was a mercy to kill this one. _Two words_ , he assured himself, _and he will be free of any pain._ Regulus raised his wand. He had to kill this man, no this muggle, filth and vermin to all of them. It was what he was born to do, as a mage. It was within his rights, as a member of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

He had to, even if he knew that there was no mercy in murdering in cold blood.

 _'Do not disappoint me, Little Black’_ , the Dark Lord had said just before they left. _‘I am not inclined to second chances.'_ He had lowered himself to whisper at Regulus’ ear, soft and quiet like the caress of a lover, and his skin felt cold, lifeless, against his. It was easy to picture the easy curve of his mouth when he cast a Cruciatus or the careless way he sent waves of magic against enemies and allies alike. Regulus remembers swallowing the bile on his throat and how the Dark Lord laughed at hearing it. 

(Regulus had seen him laughing at his enemies pain and wondered if his pain would be just as funny to Him)

His wants and weaknesses have little importance at the moment, Regulus could not afford any doubts. He was supposed to be a Lord of a Noble House, not a sympathizer, mingling with vermin. He had to act. His mind was shaking but his wand hand was firm. No sweat, no licking lips, no evading eyes. No external weakness to betray him, as he had learned from the cradle. Yet, the words did not come to him. He was supposed to be a Lord, yes, and he had a duty to his name. But a Lord was not an exterminator, not really. He could try to lie to himself however much he wished but it’ll never work. 

There could be neither mercy nor honor in murder. 

Yet, Regulus could do nothing else but to kill. To kill and survive another day, like a trapped thing, all survival and none of the higher purposes of his family line. To serve the Dark Lord is the Highest honor, Bella had told him all along, reverent. Regulus couldn't find the glory of all this, not when he was reduced to a House Elf, with a master and no will of his own, and he hated it less than he feared it. Fear had kept him safe and whole before. 

(Maybe that made him a coward. Maybe Sirius was right all along, the insufferable prat) 

Regulus could try and lie to himself. He could paint a pretty picture of a good fight against an evil they left to stand long enough, he could wax poetic about the power of the Dark Lord, his vision and his Visage. Nonetheless, their Noble Purpose felt inadequate staring at the human eyes of the vermin they so called inferior and unnecessary. It's not that Regulus doesn't believe in their mission anymore- how could he not, if it's the only certain thing in his life- it's just that he felt less like an accomplished Death Eater and more like an idiot who just crashed headfirst into the Whopping Willow. Too many hits and no room to hide. 

He was stalling for time, again, and he could hear the unrest of Mulciber's menace behind him, the weight of Evan's cutting eyes on the back of his head. They wouldn't wait much longer, not for him who had yet to prove himself to them. 

(In this world it was to kill or be killed and Regulus didn't want to kill but he didn't want to die, either. He had to choose, and abstaining had not been an option since he chose a band of this war) 

The words were at the tip of his tongue, the man's tired eyes looking everywhere but at him. He could feel his restless magic. He feared not having the will of making the curse work

" _Avada Kedavra_ " 

A green light hit the man and he flopped down gracelessly, dead. 

But that wasn't his voice. And that hadn't been his magic. 

Regulus turned to see Evan with his wand lazily twirling in his hand. His face was impassive, his eyes cold on his, a slight condescension in his posture he could never get rid of. He was confused and hated it. When you don’t understand your situation, you never know where the hits will come from. 

“What the hell was that?” Mulciber’s outraged roar broke the eye contact between the almost-lovers. Regulus couldn’t breathe suddenly, panic suddenly lost in his breast, and destroying all emotional calm he had been faking all evening behind shields and shields of Occlumency. 

Oh, Merlin, he was going to die.

“Don’t be like that,” Rosier spoke with indolence as if there wasn’t a six-foot man enraged in front of him, as if there wasn’t Regulus, trembling like a scared Bowtruckle, at his back. 

“We had our orders” Mulciber managed to get out without losing himself to the violence he was clearly holding back. 

“Our Little Prince here took too long” Evan smirked at him and Regulus stared, hoping that the fear wasn’t as painted on his pale skin as it felt. “And patience was never my virtue”

“You have those?” It escaped him from pure habit, the back and forth Regulus so rarely exchanged with people. That, that was good. Terrified people didn’t banter

“Fuck your virtues!” Mulciber snapped “If you think for one moment that the Dark Lord will-”

“ _Avada Kedavra_ ”

It was a reflex, really, a mirage of fear in Evan’s eyes, and Regulus wand had just shined a poisonous green and a woman was dead. The body fell with a turd. 

Regulus, he. He had. Just. 

_Don’t think about it_ , he told himself furiously, _don’t lose it now. Keep calm_. It’s just a light. Just a sound.

(Just a corpse.)

“That wasn’t that bad, eh, Little Black?” Rosier laughed, and maybe in another time, Regulus would have appreciated the sound. There was certain carelessness in it that he had loved, like something wild barely caged in, but now it only sounded like cruelty. “Although, magic was never your problem, was it?”

Regulus swallowed it. No. Magic wasn’t the problem at all. 

(The problem was that Regulus once thought he shared a vision, thought he belonged somewhere, that he was _wanted_. 

The problem is that maybe he didn’t want this at all. No, he did. However, he wanted the ends without the means, and didn't that make him deplorable? Like a child wanting a new toy and unwilling to pay the price for it) 

“Are you suggesting I feel guilty for taking out the trash?” Regulus managed to get out in a whisper. Hopefully, it sounded dangerous instead of brittle. The words were automatic, like a practiced role. Words were always easy for him, even when Sirius found them impossible. It was actions, it was _always_ actions he struggled with. But there was a line, where words became deeds and Regulus knew to never cross it. 

(Regulus knew very well the consequences of disagreeing with this lot, whether he acted on it or not, and he had no James Potter to run to)

“Don’t be absurd” Evan rolled his eyes and started walking off the no apparition wards. A precaution for Regulus, a reminder of how he couldn’t escape, not really. ‘What if the order appears?’ he had asked, just our of curiosity. ‘We make chicken roast’ said Mulciber stupidly, considering that Phoenix were fire reborn. 

Regulus started following him. The last thing he needed was being left behind.

‘What? For two old muggles?’ Evan had scoffed at him ‘No one will care about them’ 

Regulus had cared. It was the most stupid thing he could do, and it made no sense to him, but he did. He cared. 

“Your cousin is funnier than you,” Mulciber said in a conversational tone. It was as if his ire flew with the muggles. “You didn’t play with them even a little” 

Yes. Bellatrix would have certainly found those two muggles boring. She always, how did Cissy put it, ah, yes. She always had to play with her food. Regulus couldn't think about it now or he would puke. His so-called 'food' was already played with when he arrived. 

“I am not my cousin” He ended up stating instead of something worse. Against Bella or himself, Regulus couldn't say.

“Good for you,” Evan says, more genuine than anything he has said before. It was almost easy, to build himself back up like this. 

“She would have had your head for dragging your feet so much” Mulciber smiled. It wasn’t nice. 

It was also familiar, and comforting in a way. Regulus knew how to deal with this kind of situation. He had done this many times before. Act like nothing is different and no one could tell anything happened. Eventually, it would fade in the background, to be forgotten or locked behind some Occlumency seal. 

“Why should I worry about what Bella thinks about me?” Regulus carelessly lied, for an unhappy Bella was a very painful Bella. 

“You, worrying about something?” Evan was teasing him as if he saw inside how shook he was. As if he were easing the way. “I didn’t know you were able to” Regulus was thankful, for that. Even if any fondness he received was only offered as a reward. 

“Don’t be rude, Rosier” Regulus knew how to play this part, the perfect pureblood heir. A sneer for every word and the heavier the sarcasm, the better “You know how much I worry”

“About your hair, maybe” Evan scoffed. They had always played this game well, since the beginning of Hogwarts. Rosier had been his Slytherin guide, a third-year to Regulus first. 

“That’s Malfoy” Regulus almost smiled, “He is a fool, hair is but a compliment for the robes”

“How silly of me to forget about that”

But Regulus couldn’t smile, not really, even if his mask -both the Death Eater one and his worthy heir of the House of Black one, which he is starting to think are not that different after all- remains perfect. 

“Ugh, spare me your ‘Puff sentimentally” Mulciver grumbled. Evan arched a brow in invitation and-

Regulus felt so tired, suddenly, of something that used to bring him joy. Teaming up with Evan, bantering away, irritating their fellows until they exploded. He had loved that. Now it seemed dull. 

“Now, you only say that because the only emotion you are familiar with is anger” Evan said just before disappearing. 

“What-!?”

“That, and confusion.” Regulus added, tired but dutiful, doing the same. 

Regulus arrived home exhausted, almost at Dawn. The Dark Lord was a very intense man, and his monologues were pretty much like being lectured by the bloodthirsty version of Binns all over again, if Regulus was being honest, and a little mean. He liked to hear plans of future Glory as much as everyone else, but today-

Today was a very difficult day. 

The words that the Dark Lord used to say were as clever as ever. But they used to invade his mind like smoke, nesting inside you like two minds resonating. How seen, how understood, Regulus had felt hours before, days before. How sure. Except the words sounded hollow, as if they were suddenly dirty, covered in _mud_ and reeking of _blood,_ and Regulus- Regulus couldn’t. He just. 

The certainty was gone. His wand felt wrong in his hand. He feared, if he were to look inside it, that the dragon heartstring core would be gone, and his magic would be-

He would look and only find death in his wand. 

And _Evan’s face_ , when the Dark Lord asked him to meet him in private at a later date, it haunted him. It looked as if he regretted helping Regulus. And, the worst thing was that- _Merlin_. Rosier had killed for him and Regulus had been so _relieved_ , beneath the fear, under the incomprehension.

Regulus let his face fall on his hands. It was okay, he was safe here, under the wards of Grimmauld Place. It was late, his mother was asleep, he was finally alone. 

He could take a breather. Just for five minutes. 

_Thud_.

He could still hear it, the sound of the muggle falling to the ground, dead. By Regulus’ hand. It hit him like Bella’s curses, quick, cruel, and extremely painful, like the reality of what’s he done. He felt like a dementor was waiting outside his door, the sentence for his sins. Regulus’ throat was closing up, air never quite reaching his lungs. He felt like letting it take him away. 

Morgana, _their faces_...

They almost didn’t look human, beaten up like that. Their faces were bloated, deformed. Red and blue and yellow and black, as if painted by a kid with too many colors at hand and just the basic idea of what a nose is. It was a pathetic sight and Regulus was supposed to be repulsed by it. And instead he was-

(Regulus remembered how it was to be five and clumsy, and tripping with that old imported giant pot and breaking it. He remembered how scared he felt, when Mother came in. How guilty and relieved when Sirius stepped in. How afraid, when he sneaked into his room with healing potions. 

He remembered being six and nervous. He remembered how he played outside with Sirius. They didn't noticed how dirty the floor was, after coming back. Mother did, and Kreacher took the blame. He had sneaked into the healing cabinets, again, and Kreacher had cried his thanks. It shocked him. 

“I’ll never be like them,” he promised the elf with the blind faith of a child, “ _never_.”)

They were beaten like House Elves, with no change to defend themselves. Careless cruelty, so typical it’s not even registered as such. Regulus wondered if he would have found the muggles (the _victims_ ) repulsive if he wasn’t so used to seeing those he cared about bloody. 

He let his nails bit the roots of his hair. He almost wanted to grab it and _pull_ , until there was proof in him of what he has done. What he has lost.

( _Never_ , he repeated now, broken promise laying at his feet like a carcass, shame averting his eyes)

 _I didn’t want to_ , a small voice whined in his ear, insistent. _They made me do it_. It insisted, gaining momentum. It would be so easy to listen, so easy to excuse himself, to name that Avada Kedavra _necessary,_ and yet.

Yet, Regulus knew. He knew his intentions or regrets meant very little, sentimentalism that only braindead fools like his brother and his crowd of idiots could believe in. Who was left to care about his intentions when the ears were rendered forever deaf, the eyes forever blind. What significance his regret had in the great scheme of things. 

How to apologize, even, when he didn’t even know their _names_. 

( _“You are the worst kind of coward_ ” He had said before leaving, a coldness in his eyes as familiar as terrible in eyes like his, a back wide enough to defy the world, leaving him behind. 

Always, _always_ , leaving him behind)

Regulus Black was a murderer. 

And a part of him, no matter how small, a caged beast of resentment drunk on the suffering of everyone what was not Regulus himself, a part of him liked how easy it was. How killing was so simple. How thrilling it felt, that power over life or death, like a god among mere mortals. How good would it be if he were to felt like that all the time, powerful and untouchable. How tempting it was, to fall into that way of thinking. To kill his problems and vanish the corpses left. To sew his own thread of fate. Maybe too tempting, like drinking Felix Felicis once and becoming drunk on success. The worst thing was that Regulus could almost see, divination be damned, what he would become on that path

A Regulus Black that never ran, bathed in power and trapped by madness forever rejoicing in other’s suffering. He could almost hear his twisted laugh, roars of triumph and darkness that were reflected on his dark, dark eyes. His words dark and sweet, and like black snakeroot, terribly lethal. 

He could play to be his own oracle but he was really seeing another, as if for the first time.

He let his head go until it hit the sofa he practically threw himself in. He hit it once, twice. It was too soft to leave an impression. Regulus wanted it to hurt, to feel real. 

He feared to become just like Bella, like mother, all but consumed by power. “It’s the Black madness, son” Grandfather had told him once, many years ago “it consumes us, makes us empty, hungry for more. We could swallow the world whole” 

“But it’s beautiful” The Regulus has said back then, looking at Bella dueling Andromeda to the ground. She was unstoppable. “She’s a warrior.” 

It was a little of an inside joke, how the cousins mimicked the stars they were named after. Andromeda, the martyr, the star-crossed lover; Bellatrix, the amazon; Sirius, the dog, the brightest; and himself, Regulus, the ~~lion~~ Little King. 

“Your cousin is true to her name” Grandfather had said back then, looking at Mother with a difficult expression, which was weird, because she was not star-named, like Narcissa. “Nonetheless, madness is very different from dueling an opponent. Many don’t see it as a fight, but as a seduction”

(Once, when he was thirteen, Bella had hugged him and lifted him off the floor with her exuberance. He had just managed to block her out of her mind for the first time, using Occlumency. Her laugh was joyful, wild, _proud_. 

He could conjure a corporeal Patronus out of that memory alone

Once, just before turning sixteen, Bella had grabbed his forearm, nails digging in like claws. ‘ _Kneel,_ ’ she had told him, fervent, _‘kneel before your Lord’_ )

Regulus took a moment to breathe. In and out. Again and again. He felt foolish, naive. He glanced at his arm. At his _brand_. 

There was no turning back now. No room for doubts. No way to spell a do-over. . 

He grabbed his arm like Bella not too long ago, fingers clawing at flesh, and tried to breathe through the pain. It grounded him, to hurt, into the moment and not the- 

He feared death, of course, he did, he was a coward. However, he feared himself even more. 

He didn’t want to become another monster, to bury cruelty and madness in senseless death, to force sadism down the throat of however was unfortunate enough to cross his path. To waste magic and time in destroying, indifferent to tragedy and loss, overcome by whims and fancy. To go from casual murder to tea with biscuits. Regulus doesn’t want to become that and yet. 

Yet, he couldn’t turn back. It was far too late. 

( _‘Oh, little Reggie got cold feet?’_ He imagines his face, all that carelessness that couldn’t hide the wild beneath, all that joy that lighted him inside out ‘ _You dug your grave, brother_ ’ A snobby sneer turned back to his own blood. ‘ _I warned you. Don’t come crying back to me now’_ You didn’t listen, his steel eyes would scorn him, you brought this upon yourself.

He couldn’t turn back because there was _nothing_ to turn to. Not anymore) 

His wand was burdened by the sins it cast. 

His nails had broken the skin, and he could see how the snake chased the drops of bloods like the predator it was. Always searching for weaknesses. It was exhausting, to live under that gaze. It was tiring, to constantly use it. 

Still, he couldn’t look back. 

Sirius wouldn’t be-

 _Who needs a brother_ , he had thought bitter and triumphant, before taking the mark, more sure of his decision than anything in is life. _Who needs a brother when you can have power._ What a joke. He had been so certain, so set in that path, in their cause. Mudbloods were a curse to all magical beings, with their ignorance and arrogance and the risk they bring to the Statute of Secrecy. 

Muggles were sheep, dumb and slow, and driven by fear. They were vermin, filth. Why should they, as Wixes, hide from their lessers? Why should they, as the powerful ones, live in fear? It was seductive, persuasive, to know that tradition will be preserved, to know that Old Magicks, powerful rites that hit the delicate sensibilities of the ones that did not belong to their society will once again be revered, and not prohibited. 

Muggles should know their places. And it was their duty, their noblesse oblige as Blacks, as a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, to put them back where they belonged

(But maybe, maybe, if they belonged six feet underground, Regulus didn’t want to-)

Regulus bit his cheek to evade the white panic. He bit until he tasted blood. He was safe, there. It was Grimmauld place. Father was gone. Mother was asleep. Sirius had left. There was no one left to hurt him. To read his mind, and catch him unaware. He checked his Occlumency shields anyway. Trust was a scarce thing these days, and Regulus’ hold on his role as a loyal Death Eater was not as established as most. They saw him as a child, and he had resented that, like a fool, because his coming of age mission was murder.

But in the end, he has done his duty, as a willing pawn. 

He was always just a pawn. To everyone. A desperate pawn eager to please and to belong and so easy to leave behind. So easy to forget. To use and discard. He was a pawn drowning in self-pity and he had just-

He threw his beech wand with a shout, suddenly enraged and froze at the thud of the wood in the sofa across of him. It sounded just like-

The bodies had just _fell_ , like puppets with their strings cut. As if they were a charmed mannequin and not- 

The woman had shouted, he suddenly remembered, when the man died. She had screamed in rage and spat at them and, even when she was muted, her words pierced Regulus' heart. ‘Murderer!’ He had read on her lips. Then the curse hit and she dropped on her face, lifeless. 

Mulciber had laughed. He hadn't noticed. 

But he had laughed, like it was funny, like-

Regulus didn’t understand. 

But, if Mulciver’s laughter or Evan’s indifference or the Dark Lord’s smirk meant anything, he was the only one who doesn’t. 

Maybe he was just soft, as Sirius said, too soft to make hard choices. Maybe he had been blind, too busy with the humes in the air to consider the effects on the potion. Maybe he had been just stupid, dumb or maybe-

How could something that sounded so right, so wonderful from the lips of the Dark Lord taste so bitter in his tongue? How could their worthy cause be reduced to this? Regulus had believed in Him, in the world he promised, and he believed when He said they had to fight for it. The Dark Lord had a vision, had a plan. 

And now, in the safety of his home, in the ashes of his mission, a first mission he had been so eager for, desperate to prove his worth, Regulus started to doubt. 

He couldn’t stop. 

His breath grew ragged and he felt his grasp of the now escape his fingers. He tried to pull his hair again but the pain felt distant, not his. He was doubting everything and it felt like falling endlessly into the unknown, like-

He breathed again (he keep forgetting to, for some reason) and traces the horrible lines of the Dark lines over his skin. They felt soul-deep. Like rotten chains on his magical core, keeping his trapped, like invisible command of an Imperio, pulling him irreversibly towards one path only. 

He still felt terribly ungrounded.

Regulus counted to three and named things. It was an old Occlumency trick, to come back to reality, handy. Subtle. 

One, the white of his hands, pale spiderly and cold.

(His hands were just like that, like giant spiders that seemed so inviting until you notice the web crafted around you-) 

Two, the blood in his mouth. It’s rusty, warm. Maybe even sweet. 

(The splintered bone, striking against the red of the wound, pumping out in phases, like a heart-)

Three, the restless magic in his core, half-wild. Unstable, like a child’s. 

(The flash of green, the instive way it was casted, as if Regulus was used to it, as if) 

Four, his wet, salty cheeks. 

He was crying. 

Regulus cursed in a low voice for his weakness, for his lack of control and tried to stop. A sob escaped him, treacherous. He tried again in vain to compose himself. He stopped breathing, trying to stop. He was drowning on air. Regulus let out a gasp, trembling, and a sharp inhale, loud. 

If Sirius were there he-

( _‘Oi, Reggie, come on_ ’ Clumsy hands patting his cheeks, as if a slap will banish the tears ‘ _Don’t cry!_ ’ A voice, loud even in whispers ‘ _It’s okay, see? I’m here!_ ’ Warmth and safety, in a blinding smile.)

He-

He wouldn’t care, would he? Not anymore. He left. He chose. He-

Regulus was all alone.

“Master Regulus?”

 _Kreacher_.

“Is the Young Master okay?” The voice was too high, too uncultured, too honest in the way the worry bleed in. “Can Kreacher help the Young Master?” Too caring. 

Regulus wasn’t alone, he had Kreacher. He could never be alone with Kreacher. 

“It’s- there’s no-” Regulus let out the weakness in his voice, open and raw, too tired to be bothered with any masks. He didn’t really need them, anyway, with Kreacher “I feel fine”

Kreacher frowned at him with those sharp giant eyes of his, not believing a single word. 

“If Young Master said so”

 _Oh, you wretched, dirty, wonderful creature._

Like kindling, there was something warm in his empty chest after the Elf’s word, slowly reviving. Regulus would be lost without him.

“Thank you anyway, Kreacher” Somehow, even if Regulus thought the ability lost, he could manage a smile for the House Elf. 

(What a pathetic wizard he turned out to be, unable to smile to save his life but able to do so for a lowly house elf)

It was a half-hearted grimace, small and unfit and puny but the most genuine expression Regulus has managed to make all day nonetheless. He was safe with Kreacher. 

“Kreacher will always help the Young Master in anything he wants” Kreacher said loyally, as an universal truth. Regulus looked at him, in his rags, with his twig-like limbs and batty ears, and he- “It’s the biggest honor, to serve a Master as kind as good as Master Regulus”

He didn’t deserve Kreacher. 

“Kind and good” Regulus reflected, blinking rapidly to avoid crying even more. “Do you want to know a secret, Kreacher?”

“Kreacher will be honored to keep Young Masters secrets!” He said, eager and a little childish, despite how old he really was. “He will never betray Master Regulus confidences”

“I know” Regulus almost wanted to smile if he didn’t fear ashes would come out between his teeth “You are a good elf” 

“Kreacher is happy” He smiled, smug, sharp teeth in view. “He has the best Master”

“But I’m not,” Regulus said bitterly “I’m not good or kind or anything like that. Today I-” Regulus tried to compose himself “I killed a person, Kreacher”

“Surely,” Kreacher said, the faith in his master never wavering “Master had a good reason”

If only. 

“I was afraid,” Regulus spoke, “Sirius was right. I’m just a coward”

“No! That filthy blood-traitor is no good!” Kreacher protested, incensed. He would never dare to speak so freely in front of Father or, Morgana save him, Mother “It’s just lies because he was jealous of Good Young Master Regulus, that he was!”

“I think I made a mistake,” Regulus wasn’t listening, too caught up in confessing. “When I joined them and- they-”

“Master Regulus?”

“I just can’t see it, Kreacher” He whispered, ashamed “How can all this help us? We’re just.” He licked his lips “I don’t think much of muggles but to kill them all?” 

Regulus looked down, where he could feel Kreacher bony hand in his knee, a soft touch. His eyes were wide, confused but still warm. Carefully, he handed him his wand. Regulus picked it up by habit.

“Master Regulus has always been too kind,” Kreacher said. It didn’t even sound like a failure, from his lips “Even to a house-elf like Kreacher or filthy muggles. It’s no good when he broods too much”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he told him, “all of this is- it’s. They ask too much for me”

Ashamed, Regulus looked at the ground. He wasn't even supposed to be the Heir. He was just the second-best, the spare. 

“Is...is the Dark Lord mistreating Young Master Regulus?” Kreacher asked after a long silence, voice uncertain in an uncharacteristic way. Regulus almost smiled at the outrage in the edges of his tone. As if the slightest hint of unfair treatment to his ‘Young Master Regulus’ will lit him up in a rage. What a picture would Kreacher make, going against the Dark Lord himself because he ‘didn’t treat Master Regulus right’ He would do that, his Kreacher was fierce like that. Regulus suppressed a shudder, the possible reaction of the Dark Lord making him pause. He would destroy the elf. 

“No!” He said quickly “It’s okay, Kreacher, you don’t need to worry about that” 

“But Master Regulus is a Good Boy!” Kreacher insisted and Regulus snorted, bitter and unable to help himself

“I’m really not”

“He is!” Kreacher insisted “He has brought honor to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black after the treacherous dog left! Even the fools of the Ministry know how great the Young Master is!”

“That’s-” Regulus sighed, suddenly remembering how tired he really was “It’s hardly by my own merit that I’m in the Department of Mysteries. I was handed the job, everybody knows that.”

Being an Unspeakable was a great honor, and probably the job of his dreams. Regulus loved magic, in all of her forms, and working on it daily was indescribable. Yet, to get invited in the (supposedly very secret) program immediately after leaving Hogwarts? It was unheard of, no matter how good his grades were. 

It was because of his name, his connections, and it made something in him feel very small, unworthy and suddenly asked to fill shoes he was told all his life were too big for him. 

“If anyone thinks that it's because they do not know Master Regulus at all” Kreacher declared with, again, that unwavering faith that he seemed to have in Regulus. He could do no wrong, in his eyes. “Master Regulus will show them, yes he will, how good he is”

It felt heady, to have that on his shoulders. 

But it felt different from the weight of expectations being a Black brought. It gave him strength. Regulus looked at his watch, still brand new from his recent seventeenth birthday, it was late.

“Prepare me a bath, would you? It’s been a long day and I wish to retire”

“Yes, Master.”

“And Kreacher?”

“Master?”

“Thank you, for listening”

Kreacher didn’t say anything, but his ears went red with pleasure and he smiled to himself, just before disappearing with a clack of his fingers. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, extremely helpful and eager elves are all god, yes yes. But I think that the Regulus and Kreacher dynamic was not that easy. It was deeper. I don't know how to make explainable notes for the choices I made for the chapter without spoiling my entire timeline, so this should be enough.  
> ...But I'm gonna create various OC which will appear a lot, if not in this fic then in the next so there's that.


End file.
